


Laying the Stones

by hannah_jpg



Series: Across The Fords [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-21 01:31:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11933517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannah_jpg/pseuds/hannah_jpg
Summary: A Wild Woman nearly drowns in the Fords of Isen, but is saved by an unlikely person. Prequel to "The Stepping Stones of the River Isen"





	1. Chapter 1

_ 2993 TA, The Fords of the River Isen _

 

The woman paused, wiping away damp hair from her forehead as she glanced uneasily at the sky. Swollen grey clouds stared back at her, unmerciful and threatening more rain. 

The storms and rain they had experienced were unusual in and of themselves; during this, the hottest part of the year, it was not uncommon to go for weeks without any moisture at all. The crops would be good and strong this harvest, if they did not drown. But Maderun’s present duty was not made any easier by the rain; in fact, it made it that much harder. 

She sloshed back to the eastern riverbank. The rushing water which rose around her knees, thankfully protected by waterproof boots, ought to have only been tricking ‘round her ankles. Carrying the heavy stones which would form a stepping-bridge across the river Isen was a difficult task already; the high water did not help. 

Slopping onto the bank, she paused to drink cool water from the flask at her waist. It remained hot despite the clouds. It would not be remiss to break in the cooler shade for a bit. Maderun sat on a tree trunk, catching her breath from the hard work, watching the forms of her companions as they, too, lugged stones into the shallows. And far, far on the western shore, was the scurrying of the Strawheads as they patrolled, watching and waiting as if for her people to attack. 

This made her scoff. There were no more than a dozen of them laying the stones; too few even for the vanguard of an army. And what advantage could they, exhausted from work and unarmed, have over a cavalry group of trained soldiers? Even the scant guard the chief had sent with them was no more than a half-drunk rabble. Rabble that looked at her too long and too maliciously, Maderun thought sourly; no decent guard would be so disrespectful. Or so she thought. But what did she know, after all?

Almost nothing. She knew how to lay the stones, the last heritage from her long-dead father, who had been a stonemason. But she did not know what purpose they were to serve. 

It did not do to speculate, but Maderun was not sure why the chiefs wished an easier way to cross the Fords, since nothing but their enemy was on the other side anyway. 

She tucked away her flask, standing and stretching her arms high before sauntering back towards the riverbank. The pile of melded stones, meant to be the bases of the actual stepping stones, did not seem any smaller than that morning. There was still so much work to do. Maderun pushed up the sleeves of her tunic higher, throwing her braid over her shoulder, and lifted one onto her shoulder. 

The river was, if possible, even higher. Her trousers grew damp above the knee, and water splashed into her boots and began to soak her stockings. Grimacing, she exchanged looks with the other workers in the middle of the ford; none looked happy about the conditions. Unfortunately, the idiotic guard was not only for their protection, but to make sure they did not dawdle. And waiting until the water receded would certainly qualify as dawdling, to such a group of ingrates. 

Maderun dropped the ring from her shoulder. The water was no longer clear, but brackish-brown. She lowered it towards the surface of the river, bending over and wetting her front all the way to her chin before the ring touched the bottom. Bleh! She straightened, squeezing water from her tunic with a frown. 

“I will get your stone!” Another woman called to her from shore, nearly inaudible from the distance. “If you leave your base, you won’t find it again, I can tell you that! Half a moment.”

She waved her arm at the lady, speckling the river with drops of water. Likely Maderun’s poor feet would be nicely wrinkled by evening; it was not a pleasant thought. Drying them by the fire was, however, and her eyes misted over and she sunk into a daydream. Her bedroll, the night-fire, a respite from the wet . . . Usually there were very nice stories told in the evenings as well. Surely it was nearing sunset, but the clouds made it difficult to tell. 

Maderun nudged her ring with a booted toe. It had not moved. Then again, the current was usually so lazy . . . 

Another worker, this one a wizened man, was trudging slowly towards her, his mouth moving but no sound. At last he reached her, and grinned toothlessly. 

“Six steps from my base ring,” he said. “I hope you’ll remind me when I return.”

“Of course. I will make sure no kelpies get to it.”

He wheezed with laughter, and continued on. Maderun glanced around her; everyone else was on shore, resting or gathering supplies. On the far bank, several armored men were watching them. Her farsight was not good, but she imagined their pale faces scowling. With their limited knowledge, a solitary woman in the middle of a river was probably very strange, after all . . . 

Suddenly there was a commotion on their shore. The men’s heads turned northwards, and there were shouts in their language. Fascinated, Maderun stared as several rushed out of their tall tents, all pointing towards the river north of her. What could it be? She turned back towards the eastern shore. Perhaps her people knew. 

The wind had picked up, and that was likely why she had not heard their shouts of warning or the roar of the river as the currents suddenly grew, and she nearly lost her footing. Many were waving their arms at her, and Maderun tilted her head, confusion increasing. 

A rushing and a roaring filled her ears. Startling, she whipped ‘round towards the north, and a huge swell of water knocked her off of her feet and into the raging water. 

 

* * *

 

Maderun felt as if she were in a vice; clamped in on all sides and unable to move. The water twisted and turned her wherever it wished, filling her ears, her nose, her mouth. She clamped her eyes shut, not wanting to see what rock or tree would surely slam into her head and end her life. 

A grip like iron fastened ‘round her waist, and she was freed from the merciless tug of the water, though this new pressure was just as unrelenting. She felt her hair swarm around her face, and she tried to push it away, but it was too hard to fight the water. Her lungs began to ache, and white spots appeared in front of her eyes. 

She felt her body break the surface; without the water her limbs suddenly felt heavy and sore. The hard sand of the bank rose up to meet her, and she gasped in air, humid but astonishingly refreshing. A large hand thumped on her back, and she coughed, spewing water.

The person next to her—it had to be a man—was panting heavily, muttering something under his breath in a deep voice. She did not understand the words, in her shocked and muddled mind. He turned her then onto her back, surprisingly gently, and speaking again in his language.

Maderun’s eyes fluttered open, the brightness causing her to wince. She pressed a hand to her aching head, covering her eyes from the light.

“You—good?”

His Dunlendish was atrocious. She glared at him from below her hand, taking in the sight of the Strawhead with vehemence according to centuries of hatred. He was massive; the largest man she had ever seen in her life, and her heart thumped uncomfortably at the thought of being at his mercy. His long blond hair was wet, plastered to his head. A straight nose, freckled from the sun, and a beard dripping water. Eyes—a very pleasant blue, not unlike a cloudless sky, and with wrinkles from smile lines around the edges—were gazing down at her with concern. 

Concern?

“I am fine,” she snapped, struggling to her elbows before sitting forward. A rush of dizziness, and Maderun slumped, her stomach rolling with nausea. The man grunted, a hard, muscled arm stealing around her shoulders and guiding her back towards the ground, muttering all the more. She decided not to resist, closing her eyes again against her pounding headache, trying to understand what had just happened.

The river had flooded. That much seemed sure. Maderun remembered the sight of the surging wave, and shuddered. Where had all the water come from? Had it been built up from all the rain? She had never heard of the river flooding before. 

She had almost drowned.

A Strawhead had saved her. 

This thought sharpened the nausea in her gut. A  _ Strawhead _ ! One of the barbarians who stole babies from cradles to eat on full moons had saved her life. She could not believe it.

Maderun peeked open an eye. The man had removed his tunic and was wringing it out into the river, which still roared with ferocity. Definitely a Strawhead; none of her people would have bothered. None of them could swim. Without realizing it, she continued staring at the man, intrigued. There was a knotted scar on his left shoulder, likely years old but poorly treated at the onset. It did not disfigure the raw power and muscle she could see, rippling his pale skin as he moved. He turned, and she squeezed her eyes shut, flushing a deep red. 

“River . . . no cross.” He said in his deep voice. “You . . .  er . . .  _ ne edhwierft _ .”

“That means nothing to me,” Maderun said, scowling at him. “May as well flap your arms around to get your point across.”

His blue eyes rested on her, clearly unimpressed by her tone. She quailed; this was clearly not a man to be rude to. A simple look and she was already reduced. 

He swung his tunic over his shoulder and returned to her side. Before she could say anything else, she was hauled up into his arms, high above the ground, and he was walking towards the Strawhead camp some five hundred feet from the river.

Had she a voice and not dumb from shock, Maderun might have screamed. But the motion was intensifying her dizziness once again, and she bit her lip to keep from whimpering. She felt the vibrations in the man’s chest as he barked orders in his tongue, and she sensed a great deal of activity around her. A swoosh of fabric, and the light dimmed. She opened her eyes just as she was placed on a low, fur-covered bedroll, gazing around in confusion. 

The man tossed his tunic over a rope at the top of the tent, glancing her way. “You rest,” he said. But Maderun was watching in fascination as he fetched a clean tunic from a set of saddlebags and pulled it over his head. He glowered at her, and she quivered with distrust, and perhaps something more. The man shook his head, mumbling under his breath as he strode from the tent. 

Despite his command, Maderun was given no time to rest. A scant few minutes later, as she was still staring at the tent above her, and she had another visitor.

This Strawhead was older and shorter, with a clinking satchel which he dropped on the ground by the bedroll as he peered down at her, brows furrowed.

“Well, well,” he said in perfect Dunlendish, causing Maderun’s mouth to fall open. “You have caused a disruption, haven’t you?”

“Caused a disruption?” Maderun said. “I beg your pardon, surely you are not suggesting that I nearly drowned  _ on purpose _ .”

The man picked up her wrist, feeling for her pulse. She tried to wrench her arm away, but his grip was sure. “You are fortunate our good Marshal saw fit to fish you out,” he continued, dropping her wrist before pressing his cold fingers to her face, peering into her eyes. “Otherwise your people would be singing your funeral hymns.”

“Yes, how very courteous of  _ your good Marshal _ .”

“Careful, missy.” The man towards the pile of bags in the corner of the tent and began to search through it. “He does not tolerate rudeness.”

The indignity of the situation made Maderun squirm. She did not like that the man had not asked her permission before examining her, even if he did seem to be a healer, nor that she was in the Strawheads’ camp when she could have crossed the river already so safe, eastern bank. 

The Marshal had said something about that, she vaguely remembered. What was it? That the river couldn’t be forded? 

“Is the river too high to cross?” she asked the healer. 

“Yes.” He straightened, and tossed her a heavy leather pouch. “You are, I am afraid, stuck here until it goes down. It is too dangerous to cross. And do not worry—” Here he matched her grimace. “We do not want you here anymore than you do. But the Marshal has a good heart. He is a good man.” The man’s brows furrowed. “Do not repay him badly for his kindness.”

“Well, if  _ you _ say so.”

The man grunted and snatched up his bag, ignoring his glare as he stomped from the tent. She swung her legs over the side of the cot, feeling energized in her righteous indignation and scowling at the man’s back.

The pouch nearly fell to the ground in her movement, but Maderun caught it. Her anger turned to curiosity as she studied the soft leather. She did not trust anything any of the Strawheads gave her, but she wished fervently for some herbs for her headache. And a drink of water; she was positively parched. Opening the flap, she caught her breath to see the silver glint of a gilded comb and matching looking-glass. She had never seen such treasures; the grime underneath her fingernails seemed much dirtier than normal as she picked up the comb. Though beneath her wonder was a sense of gratitude, as her hair  _ was _ quite messed. Maderun examined the looking-glass next, unsure of what she would see. She had only looked into a mirror once before in her life, at a chief’s hillfort when she was very young. 

Her face had lost the roundness of childhood that she remembered. But the pert nose was the same, and her full lips and wide eyes, framed by thick lashes and furrowed brows. Her eyes were dark brown, almost black, with the golden flecks that she remembered her mother having before she died. Streaks of dirt and mud hid her skin, which had always felt smooth to her fingertips, and a bleeding cut marred her browline. Maderun wondered if it was a pretty face. Many people, mostly young men, had often told her she was beautiful. But the orphaned daughter of a stone mason could hardly judge beauty. Fat lot of good it did her, anyway.

Underneath the comb and mirror there was a bundle of fabric. Maderun tugged on it, and it fell in a soft waterfall across her lap, and she gasped. It was a finely made frock in beautiful shade of deep red, with golden embroidery around the wide neck and the sleeve edges. It was richer than anything even the chief’s wife wore, and the chief’s wife was vain. Why, exactly, a camp of soldiers had such a gown Maderun did not understand, nor why she had been given it. She was, after all, an enemy. Likely she did not deserve, in their eyes, the matching leather slippers that the bag next yielded. They were too large for her feet, but not unwearable.

There was also a paper-wrapped package underneath, which revealed a rich set of golden jewels; a necklace set with red stones and earrings. Feeling slightly ill, she wrapped them again, though not as neatly, and put them away.

The flap of the tent was thrown open again, and Maderun jumped, face flushing as she felt like a child caught doing something naughty. But it was only the healer-man, lugging a basin of water. 

“For you,” he muttered, setting it on the ground along with a pile of cloths. “Though what you have done to deserve a wash, like some sort of princess . . . humph!” He turned straight ‘round and left again. 

Maderun had the some concerns that the healer did. Why  _ was _ she given such preferential treatment? She did not understand. Then again, she would not complain, either. 

She left her dirty clothes in a neat pile on the ground, unsure what to do with them. Her trousers and tunic had both been torn in several places, and her boots muddy. Tenderly she began to wash her body with the clean cloths, and winced as the cool water touched her raw skin. Dirt was streaked down her arms as well as her face, and she scrubbed herself until her skin was pink and the wash water brown. 

While her skin dried in the stifling air of the tent, Maderun used the silver comb to untangle her hair. It took several painful minutes, but this comb was far nicer than the one of bone she had under her pallet across the river. Once finished, she dipped her hair in the water to give it at least a cursory wash. 

Had the healer really wished to treat her as a princess, as he so grumbled, he might have provided more wash water. 

She wrung out her wet hair and bound it in the last clean cloth to dry. Maderun knew she would not be so fortunate to find underclothes in the pouch, and so pulled the soft woollen dress over her head. It floated across her sore skin like the merest breath. No cloth in Dunland was of this quality, and she sighed, running her hands over the skirt to smooth it down as it pooled at her feet.

Well, Strawhead women  _ were _ taller. Maderun bit her lip, and then cinched up the waist, tying the excess into a clever knot so that the hem of the skirt brushed the top of her feet. 

The tent was darkening by that hour; it must be close to sunset. Maderun yawned, exhausted by the hard labor of her morning and the difficulties of the afternoon. There was no indication that she would be brought a meal or a drink (why had she not drunk from the wash water before she cleaned herself? That might have been wise!). So she sat on her aching legs on the bed roll, yawning again. Surely she was not needed anywhere. She could rest her eyes, for now . . . 

 


	2. Chapter 2

When Maderun jolted awake some time later, the tent was completely black apart from the glow of fires and torches outside. She sat up, dizziness clouding her vision as she groaned softly; her headache had worsened while she slept. Coupled with a gnawing hunger in her gut, she felt completely ill. 

The noise that must have awoken her paused, and she blinked up to see the healer scowling down at her. Suddenly noticing him made her feel uneasy, as if he had been watching her. 

“You are ill?” he asked.

“Yes,” Maderun tried to snap, but the word emerged a hoarse plea.

“I have willow bark tea, and a salve for your cuts. And the Marshal has sent food and water.”

The healer held up a steaming flask, and she accepted it gratefully. Though she would not say as much to a Strawhead. The tea burned her tongue, but eased some of her thirst. 

“Your supper,” he said, waving a hand at the ground. Maderun saw a bowl of gloppy stew and another flask, as well as a small, sealed pot. “Do not eat that,” he added sharply. “That is for your wounds.”

“Thank you,” she managed to say.

“Thank the Marshal. It is a gift for his wife that you are wearing. Were the wildmen not camped on the eastern bank, he would have already arrived home to give it to her. But alas!” His disgruntlement was obvious. Maderun scowled at him but he had already retreated, leaving the tent once again with no parting words and no ceremony. She might have been offended by his rudeness, had she not been so relieved to see the back of him. 

Nonetheless, Maderun was very pleased by the victuals. She ate sitting on the bedroll, conscious of wearing a frock meant for the marshal’s wife. If she spilled anything on it . . . well, she certainly had not the funds to replace it. But the tasty stew disappeared quickly, and soon she was sighing from contentment for the first time since arriving at the Strawheads’ camp. Then she opened the salve and spread a generous amount on the cuts on her arms and face. 

Once satisfied, she shook out her partially dry hair and began to comb it again. It had held up well during her nap, and with nimble fingers Maderun braided half atop her head in a crown, leaving the rest to fall in waves down her back. Normally she eschewed such an impractical style, but with the beautiful dress . . . she could hardly resist. 

Nor could she resist the looking glass again, and hesitating only a brief moment, she picked it up once more. 

Now cleaned and groomed and flushing with pleasure, the face that stared back at her was, admittedly, pretty enough, even in the dim light. Burgundy certainly brought out her coloring better than drabby brown ever had. Maderun tucked a loose curl behind her ear, smiling a smile that revealed two dimples. Her father’s smile. Her heart ached for both of her parents whom she saw in her face, and a weight of loneliness, keenly intensified as she was surrounded by enemies, made her shoulders sag. She replaced the mirror in the leather bag, her vision blurred by tears. How long had it been since she thought of her mother and father so much? Too long, too long . . .

The tent flap opened again, and Maderun glowered to be interrupted in such a vulnerable moment, and to have to face the rude healer. But as she raised her head, she saw the Marshal himself, her rescuer, standing just inside the tent with his eyes fastened her.

She jumped to her feet, feeling awkward in his gaze. Though she was somewhat accustomed to men staring at her, this one was different. Less rude. Less salacious. More . . . kindly. Admiring, but without the arrogance of ownership. The dim torchlight from beyond flickered in his face, and Maderun felt her stomach turn as she realized his handsomeness. 

No, no! Strawheads could not be handsome. They were evil, they had stolen lands from her people . . . even if this one  _ had _ saved her life. But she could not forgive him the sins of his people.

“You . . . good?” His voice rumbled in the tent. 

“Yes.”

“River . . . high. No cross.”

“I know. Your healer told me.”

“You . . . stay. Here.”

“It seems I have little choice.”

The Marshal did not understand her words, but he sensed her tone well enough. He exhaled sharply, running his fingers through his golden hair as he stared at her, muttering under his breath, “ _ Friþ! Hwy swencst ðu mec? Sé fæmne ic áhreddan sculan bist earfoðe and ælfscyne! Béma! Ic béo ac sum anfeald wer. _ ”

Maderun met his gaze, though she felt increasingly unsure of herself. The only word she recognized was Bema, whom she knew the Strawheads worshipped. 

“You stay,” he said roughly, jabbing a finger at the ground with his brows furrowed. “Here. Stay!”

“Very well! No need to yelp. I am not a pup.”

The Marshal glared at her for a moment, something in his expression softening for the briefest moment. Then he turned on his heel and left. 

She sat heavily on the bedroll, tired from this strange confrontation in a way she did not understand. Nor could she comprehend the strange Marshal’s intentions or feelings, nor the feelings which were surfacing in her chest in regards to him. 

She could not like him. He was vile, a murderer, just as the rest of his people were. There would be no room allowed for kindness in her heart. Or else she would be trapped by the enemy as surely as in chains. 

  
  


The following day Maderun was feeling quite normal. She ached less, having gotten a very good nights’ sleep, and with a sturdy breakfast of plain porridge and more medicinal tea, she decided she quite liked having a day of rest, even if it was in an enemy camp. And, of course, that she was not allowed from the tent. 

But soon enough the novelty was worn away and she grew bored. There was nothing for her to do; she dared not go through the unguarded saddlebags in the tent, nor even to leave the tent at all. The Marshal’s command had been clear enough. So she began to sing, songs of her childhood that recalled the face of her mother to mind, and the echoing laugh of her father. Softly at first, but growing louder as her voice and her confidence grew strong. So what if she was surrounded by enemies? They would not break her spirit, nor would she be made to deny her very blood! 

The flap of the tent was shoved ruthlessly aside, and the white-lipped face of the healer stared at her. “Quiet!” he hissed. “You are unsettling us all.”

Madrun surged to her feet, tossing back her hair. “And how do you think  _ I _ feel?” she asked, enraged at the intrusion. 

“The soldiers are saying you are a witch, putting spells on anyone who hears your voice,” the man said. “Shut up, or you will face the consequences of witchcraft.”

“Singing is witchcraft? That is absurd.”

The healer’s jaw twitched. “None of us know the methods of Dunlending witchcraft. Keep your mouth shut, and the Marshal may allow you to live.”

“How generous of your Marshal.”

He opened his mouth, rage setting a light in his eyes, but before he could speak there was a low murmur outside the tent where Maderun could not see. The healer bowed, and left, though his hands remained clenched in fists at his side.

The Marshal entered the tent tent, letting the flap fall behind him, but this did not surprise her. Who else could have the authority to send that bitter man away? Maderun met his eyes boldly, ready to defend herself further. 

But there was no anger in his clear eyes. In fact, they were entirely unreadable, and her shoulders fell slightly, unsure of how to react. 

He barked suddenly in his own language, and the flap was opened once more, this time emitting a man she had never seen before; broad-shouldered and blond-bearded. He glanced at her with a curled lip, a far cry from the the Marshal’s gaze. 

There was a quick conversation between the two in their own tongue. Then the Marshal nodded, and the second man turned to her. 

“I am Erkenbrand,” he said. “I speak your tongue.”

“How nice for you.”

“My lord wishes to know what we can do to ease the discomfort of your stay.” But Erkenbrand had no such kindly feelings. That much was clear from his rigid stance and cold tone. 

“I would rather not stay at all,” Maderun said. “I wish to return.”

“You cannot. The Fords remain flooded.”

She lifted her chin, despair coiling in her gut. How long would she remain here? 

“You have yet to answer the Marshal.”

“Then you may tell the Marshal that I am bored. I was brought her against my will and cannot be a prisoner. I have done nothing wrong. I ought not to be punished.”

Erkenbrand met her eyes coolly, and then relayed her message in his own tongue. The Marshal’s brows creased slightly as he muttered to his man.

“My lord agrees,” Erkenbrand said with a hint of a snarl. “And I add that I am beginning to believe that you are a witch.”

“Come off it,” Maderun snapped. “I am no witch, unless you Strawheads think that any woman who speaks her mind practices black magic. Fie on you all!”

The Marshal laid a hand on Erkenbrand’s arm, which was very well, for the angry man seemed ready to charge. 

“My lord will escort you for fresh air, if you so agree,” Erkenbrand said stiffly after a moment. “You may not go alone, for the mischief you might cause.”

“Perhaps I will cause mischief anyways. Nonetheless, I accept your lord’s offer.”

After Erkenbrand had stalked away, his duty done, the Marshal turned his attention back to Maderun, who felt suddenly and unaccountably nervous. But he said, or attempted to say, nothing, and opened the flap of the tent for her to exit. 

Maderun blinked in the bright sun, almost surprised to see that the clouds had at last dissipated. The summer heat was eased as well, and a cool breeze from the north lifted her hair from her shoulders most pleasantly. The fresh air was positively delicious, and there was a smile on her face when she turned to the Marshal standing next to her. 

“Thank you,” she told him. 

He nodded, his brows creased for an unknown reason, and he gestured for her to walk with him east, towards the boundary of the camp. They passed several tents before breaking the line, and Maderun kept her chin high as the soldiers paused in their tasks of polishing saddles or sharpening blades to stare at her. 

The Marshal spoke sharply, and the men turned away. She glanced at the Marshal, but he did not meet her eyes. 

The river  _ was _ high, Maderun noticed. The roar of it met her before the sight did, and it rose up three feet or more above the bank, spilling into the forested woods that embraced the river. She paused before her slippers got wet, but stared out at the desolation, a lump in her throat; she could not even see the Dunlending camp. 

“There,” The marshal said in a growl, pointing a finger above the trees. “Fire. Your . . . camp.”

“Oh.” Maderun was silent for a moment as she caught sight of a thin stream of smoke from a cooking fire. She then turned north, and set off meandering along the tree line. It grew quiet as noise of the Strawhead camp fell behind them, and only her own soft footsteps and the heavier ones of the Marshal, a short distance behind her, could be heard. She breathed in the fresh air, turning her face towards the sun with a smile. While she certainly did not really dislike her work on the river, the long hours of labor were not missed. With this brief freedom she even left a twinge of softening towards the man behind her, and she turned to smile at him.

His expression startled her, and her smile faded. His clear eyes were shadowed with some dark emotion, hunger and desire and . . . something else. Maderun noticed his white-knuckled fists, his stiff shoulders. She wondered what she could have done, but just as suddenly as she saw him, it faded, and his face relaxed. 

“What is it?” she asked. “Are you ill?”

“Fine. Go . . . go.” He waved a massive hand in her direction, and discomfited, Maderun tore her eyes away from him and continued her course. 

She was curious about how far afield the Marshal would allow her to stray before insisting they return, and so she did not stop walking. Every so often she would glance behind her and see him, striding with his hands behind his back and his head bowed, seemingly unbothered by the distance. It confused her in many ways. As did the low swoop in her belly at the glint of gold in his hair, and the strong jaw his beard did not quite disguise. She remembered that he had stripped half-nude in front of her, and her cheeks flushed red and her body flushed hot. 

Eventually Maderun walked herself into a state of exhaustion, and halting on her trembling legs, she sat in a field of wild grasses. She closed her eyes, breathing heavily, unsure of what had possessed her to beat herself down so far. Her hands were red and swollen from the heat and exercise, and she pushed sweaty strands of hair from her face. 

The Marshal sat down beside her, and she glanced at him, wary of his closeness, though he was more than an arms-length from her. He was looking into her face with concern.

“You . . . fine?” he asked. How she hated his terrible Dunlendish! It offended her deeply, and biting her tongue, she burst out in Westron, her face turning red,

“Oh, do stop! You are making a fool of yourself!”

The Marshal’s lips parted slightly, and he spoke back sharply. “So, you speak Westron? You might have said so earlier!”

Maderun shrugged her shoulders delicately, looking away from the Marshal's piercing blue eyes. She heard a groan, low in his throat, but not a threatening one. Frustrated, perhaps. 

She tugged several of the wildflowers that grew with the grasses out of the ground, spreading them on her lap. They were a stark contrast to the dark red of her frock, but no less pretty. She began to weave them together, feeling at once awkward and confused as she felt the Marshal’s gaze still upon her. 

But weeks of rain had left the flowers sodden, and the damp stalks were delicate and shredded under Maderun’s fingers. She struggled for several minutes, growing increasingly embarrassed. She had been weaving flowers since she was a very little girl, but somehow in Strawhead land she lost her capability. 

Tears built in her eyes as she stared at the mess in her lap, for the dirt on the pretty dress and for the wet filth on her hands. It seemed an ugly premonition of her captivity by the Strawheads. 

Maderun flinched as she saw the Marshal’s hand come into her vision, and he picked up one of the less battered flowers. She lifted her head, confused and blinking away her tears. His expression was astonishingly gentle, and with warm fingers he tucked the flower behind her ear. His hand lingered, and she swallowed, nerves building in her stomach. He touched her hair, which fell loosely on her shoulders. When had he moved so close to her? His face was so near, she could see the flecks of green in his eyes, a hairline scar above his brow. 

“You . . . are considered beautiful among your people?” His voice was low, his words phrased as a question.

“No. Yes. I do not know.” Maderun wet her lips, her throat feeling dry. “Men look at me often.”

“Hmm.” The Marshal’s touch was gentle as his fingertips glided along the embroidered neckline of her dress, his eyes drawn downward. She sucked in a shaking breath. “I think you very beautiful,” he said huskily. “I did not know a Wild Woman could be so.”

Maderun smoothed down her hair self-consciously with a trembling hand. The Marshal’s words were making her nervous; of both his meaning and of her own physical response to him. It could not possibly be normal, her tingling skin and hot belly. 

His hand dropped. “I have a wife, and a son,” he said, his voice now a growl. 

“Yes, I—your healer said as much.” It made her feel a flaring of regret, of disappointment. She did not understand that either. 

“I do not love you.”

Maderun’s mouth fell open slightly. She had heard the Strawheads were plain-speaking, but this was most strange. “Of course you do not!” she burst out. “You do not know me, nor I you! And, as you said, you have a wife! Why do you say such things?” By the end of her spiel, she was on her feet again, spilling the remnants of the flowers onto the ground. The Marshal stared up at her, nonplussed, and tearing the blossom from behind her ear Maderun set off back for the Strawhead camp. 

“Wait—I—”

She did not heed his calling for her, and indignation hastened her steps. When they were back in sight of the camp, she was out of breath once more. Without looking behind her, as she knew the Marshal was only a short distance away, Maderun made for her tent and swept inside. 

She succumbed to tears; the heavy weight of feeling a prisoner and the unwelcome and unwholesome urges she was having towards her very prison-keeper sunk her to the ground. It made utterly no sense to her, that she felt such desire towards a man both an enemy and married to another. Why was it? Because he had saved her life? That was no reason to feel such love! 

She must be imagining that he harbored the same sentiments for her. He had a wife! He could not possibly feel anything for Maderun; she was not a grand lady worthy of a Marshal and such expensive gifts. She was a stone mason’s daughter, and pretty or not, there would be no equality between them. There could not be. 

Then why did she see such affection in his eyes?

Some time later, when the sun was making its descent and darkening her tent, Maderun sat up and dried her eyes. She had tried not to make any noise, but she could not be sure. There would go her pride then; weeping uncontrollably in a Strawhead camp. Likely they would think they were crushing her spirit. Which they were not; it was her own feelings betraying her. 

She washed her face with the tepid water, drying it on a clean cloth before sitting on the bedroll to attempt to comb out the day’s tangles from her hair. It soothed her, as routine often did, and her heart’s anguish quieted, then grew still. 

Eventually the babble of the soldiers coming together to eat the evening meal began to build, and the flickering of fires and torches turned the interior of the tent orange and gold, with pockets of shadow where the light did not reach. Maderun set aside her comb just as the healer entered bearing another bowl of stew, which he handed to her without a word.

“Thank you,” she told him, taking the steaming bowl.

“Oh, it has learned manners. My  _ lady _ .” The healer bowed low, backing out of the tent without lifting his head. Such manners would have offended her at another time, but she was simply too tired to be bothered. The stew was delicious, and she ate all of it with barely a thought, the long walk having made her ravenous.

But after her meal was finished there was very little to do. Her dirty clothing caught her attention, and feeling at once bold and uncaring of what anyone thought, Maderun rummaged through the saddlebags in the tent until she found a small sewing kit. 

The light was a bit too dim to mend her clothing very well, but she preferred it to the company of Strawheads soldiers around a fire. Even if the Marshal was there, too.

If she were allowed, she would wash her clothing tomorrow, assuming that the river would still be too high to cross and return to her own lands. That ought to stave off some boredom; she had no desire for another several-mile trek. 

She finished the mending just as the sounds of the soldiers retiring to their own beds became discernable. Torches were extinguished, plunging her into near-darkness. Maderun folded her clothing neatly by feel rather than sight, and put it behind the bedroll. The tent remained warm even though the sun was gone, and she considered for a moment removing the dress and sleeping in her skin, but it was unthinkable. Too many men entered her tent without permission. Still, she did not think the frock could stand her sleeping in it for another night without wrinkling entirely. 

True to form, she had a visitor only a moment later. She had expected someone to make sure she was still there and not getting into any mischief. With a flutter in her heart, she recognized the Marshal’s broad form, outlined by the watch-fires beyond. Perhaps she had known he would come, as it brought her no shock at all. Only a surging of heat across her skin. 

“Are you well?” He spoke quietly.

“Well enough.”

“Do you need anything?”

“N—no.” She was ashamed that her voice wavered. Silence followed, and Maderun wrung her clammy hands together. Why did the Marshal not leave? 

Her eyelids shut out the sight of him. If she looked into his eyes, she would be lost forever. The thudding of his steps as he strode to her echoed strangely in her ears, matching the beat of her heart. She sucked in a breath, tasting his scent so close to her as his hands cupped her face, the pads of his thumbs rough on her jaw. 

“ _ B _ _ é _ _ ma, mildsung mec mín  _ _ léwsa _ _!” _ he murmured, and then kissed her.

Maderun felt no astonishment at this. Had she expected it? Perhaps, in a secret part of her heart. Surely any man who looked at a woman as the Marshal had looked at her would be driven to approach her in such a way. Was that what she had been waiting for, all that evening? It seemed to be so. Would she admit it? Certainly not.

She knew perfectly well what came after kisses, but the idea did not strike her with fear. It was simply the nature of things between men and women, after all. Would she rather it be for her with a kind Strawhead, or a drunken man of her own people?

Her decision was already made; after all, she had not asked him to leave the tent. 

Still, it was more than mere nature that was lighting her blood afire, dazing her mind and sending coils of heat into her belly. The Marshal’s kiss deepened, and she tasted his tongue as his hands moved to her shoulders. Her dress fell to the ground in a  _ swoosh _ , and dimly Maderun wondered how he had done that so skillfully. Well, the frock had been intended for his wife, after all . . . A sickening twinge of guilt twisted her stomach then, but before she could pull away his hold on her bare waist tightened. If he had reconciled himself to this already, Maderun would not resist. 

Every part of her body was responding to him now; and as her breath hitched he swept her up in his strong arms, as he had days earlier on the riverbank, and she was laid gently on the bedroll. 

There was no chance of seeing him undress, though she heard his own ragged breathing and the falling of his clothing. Her eyes were squeezed shut as she quivered, goose pimples from the night air spreading across her body. But that was soon remedied by the Marshal’s warmth as he lay next to her. 

How long they were together, Maderun did not know. There was only touch and sensations and feelings and a hundred other things merging together in a pleasant haze. Though she was no judge of lovemaking, it seemed to her very good indeed, and the Marshal’s low groaning only confirmed it.

Afterwards she dozed, utterly spent and full of wonder at what had just happened. He faced away from her as he sat on the edge of the bedroll, and so she said nothing, leaving him to his thoughts. Several moments passed, perhaps an hour—before the Marshal moved, letting loose a deep sigh before standing. The noise jolted Maderun back to consciousness, and she blinked in the dark as she heard him dressing. 

“Sleep in this,” he said gruffly, and tossed to her something soft and clean-smelling. “It will be more comfortable than the gown, anyway.” He left after that, and she was alone with the night noises of the camp. Bemused, Maderun sat up, unfolding the garment to reveal what was likely a tunic belonging to the Marshal himself; when she stood to pull it over her head, the hem met her knees and she was forced to roll up the sleeves several times. She allowed herself a small smile, and then curled back up on the bedroll and fell fast asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, Maderun was give two buckets of water and a strong-smelling soap with which to wash her clothing. The soldier Erkenbrand escorted her to a place away from the camp to do so, and stood awkwardly as she went about her work. She had feared, when he fetched her earlier, that he would know of hers and the Marshal’s activities the night before, but his expression betrayed nothing, and she held her chin high.

Though it was a minor disappointment that the Marshal had not escorted her himself, she imagined he had other duties. Or that he was overcome by guilt and wished nothing more to do with her. Nor that Erkenbrand did. 

He shifted his weight uneasily as he glanced at her, his hand on the pommel of his sword. This did not make her particularly nervous, and she ignored him, scrubbing her tunic and breeches with the soap until the wash water was dirty. Then she rinsed them in the clean bucket and wrung them out, sprinkling water onto the wild grass. 

“Let us return,” Erkenbrand said. “You have done enough.”

“Very well.” Maderun had no more bitterness to waste on the man, and so she smiled broadly at him. He blinked at her in surprise, and she was pleased to note his ears turning red. “Will you carry the buckets back for me?” she asked, fluttering her lashes as she had seen the chief’s wife do.

“Oh—er, certainly.”

A certain sense of gloating, of having some sort of power even in her captivity kept her smiling as they returned to camp. She made sure to smile winningly at every man she saw. Several soldiers stopped in their tracks, staring, and some even dropped the weapons they were sharpening. One particularly memorable young soldier, pounding away on an anvil, gazed up at her and struck his thumb. His howl tugged at her sympathy, but it was hilarity which Maderun primarily felt. 

“I thank you,” she said to Erkenbrand outside her tent, and he nodded and hurried on without looking back. Giggles bubbling inside of her, Maderun entered her tent and began to laugh. 

It was all too much! These strange days had overwhelmed her more than she had known. The drowning and the Strawhead camp and the Marshal—it was a miracle she had not succumbed to madness. And whyever were the soldiers reacting to her so? Perhaps she  _ was _ as beautiful as she had been led to believe. 

She hung her damp clothing on one of the many ropes which kept the tent standing. In the humidity of summer which had taken over since the clouds had parted, she could only hope that they would dry in time for her return to Dunland. 

Maderun paused. The idea of returning was no longer so sweet, but twinged with an edge of bitterness. What was that?

The Marshal, of course.

As if summoned by her thoughts, she was joined by him just as she finished spreading out her clothing. She was not startled, and smiled at him as he let the flap fall behind him. 

“My squire has just broken his thumb,” he said drily, though his eyes were twinkling. “Why is that, do you think?”

She shrugged, unable to suppress her grin. “I do not know. Perhaps he needs to focus more on his work.”

The Marshal stared at her for a moment, then let out a bark of laughter and strode forward. Maderun was pleased to allow herself to be drawn into his embrace and to return his kisses. 

“You have bewitched us all,” he murmured in her ear some time later. “And I am entirely undone.”

She had no response to this. After all, she certainly had not set out to do any such thing; she was merely enjoying the company of a handsome, attentive man. No one in Dunland would know, for she would be telling none. But Maderun smiled anyway, and extracted herself from the Marshal’s arms, tugging at her bodice to straighten it. 

“Well,” she said brightly, ignoring the stiffness of his stance. “Have you come to tell me anything other than of your squire?”

“Er—yes. The river is receding. You should be able to return safely to the eastern bank tomorrow.”

Her smile froze on her face, and likely recognizing her turmoil, the Marshal picked up one of her hands and kissed the palm. A wrench in her gut made Maderun falter. 

“It is for the best,” she said, more strongly than she felt. “It must be a hassle to keep me in your camp.”

“Indeed it is.” He gave her a small grin. “What with the injuries, and my removal from my private tent.”

“Oh. Oh!” 

“Do not worry,” he added. “It does me good to sleep in the company of my men, as any good commander ought.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to invite him to sleep alongside her, but the words stuck. She managed a tremulous smile. “I will be gone as soon as I can,” she said. 

“Not too soon. You have another night with us.”

There was something in his voice, nay, something about the Marshal’s entire person that just begged Maderun to melt into him. How could he be so utterly desirable? And a Strawhead, too!

“So I do,” she whispered.

He swallowed, a frown forming as he studied her face. “May—may I—come to you tonight?”

Her fingers rested lightly on the chest of his tunic, feeling the intake of his breaths. “You may.”

  
  


“I have decided not to think of it.”

The Marshal’s words broke the dark silence of the tent, and Maderun stirred. She had expected him to leave long ago, but he lingered, lying beside her with his fingers brushing along her bare arm. It was very pleasant, so she certainly would not complain; in fact, she had already fallen asleep.

“Think of what?” she asked.

“Us.” The Marshal pushed her loose hair from her shoulders.

“There is no-o-o-o, ah, us,” she yawned, rubbing her eyes. “There is nothing to think of.”

“That is what I have been telling myself. I do not think we shall ever see each other again.”

“No, I do not believe so.” Maderun could agree with him, even if she did not wish to. “Really, you will forget about me afore dawn tomorrow. As you should.”

“I am not so hard-hearted,” he said.

No, he certainly was not. Otherwise she would not have been drawn to him in the first place. She saw forward with another yawn, searching out her sleepshirt and slipping it over her head. 

“Sometimes a hard-heart is necessary,” she said, and began to braid back her hair. Though it was dark she could sense his eyes boring into her. Then he sat up, cupping her face in his hands and speaking urgently.

“Meet me again,” he said.

“What? No, it cannot—your wife—”

“Please.”

She was weak for him. That much was apparent. Maderun sighed, and tossed her finished plait over her shoulder. “Very well,” she said. “I will meet you again. But only once.”

“Midsummer is only three days away,” the Marshal said. “Come to this place next Midsummer.”

“On Midsummer Eve?”

“Er—no. One fortnight following.”

She hesitated. “I may not be able to. But . . .”

“Dear girl!” He pressed his forehead to hers. “I only ask because I must be certain that this has not been a dream.”

Maderun chuckled. “My dreams are generally not so vivid.”

“Nor mine. But still I doubt.”

She touched his beard, smiling. “Then I will meet you again.”

The Marshal let out an exhale of relief. “Thank you.” He stood then, leaving her feeling empty. She watched as he dressed in silence. 

He paused at the entrance to the tent, and looked back at her. It was very dim, but Maderun hoped she was not mistaking the tenderness in his eyes.

“Good night,” he said, and was gone.

  
  


The morning sun was piercingly bright, and only increased the throbbing of Maderun’s headache. She had slept badly, and now felt entirely ill-equipped to deal with the sure difficulties of the day. For the first time, she wondered how her people would react to her returning from an enemy camp. 

It hardly mattered. She would have to face it anyway. 

She dressed slowly in her old work clothes, feeling strange in them, and pulled on her boots slowly. Then picking up the comb and mirror a final time, she brushed through her hair until it shone, and braided it atop her head so it would at least stay out of her eyes. It was not a day to be so hampered by something as meaningless as hair. 

To her surprise, her morning meal was brought by the Marshal himself, though she smiled to see him. 

“As soon as you are finished eating, we will take you to the river,” he said shortly. “The Dunlendings have been shouting for you. Erkenbrand says they have been accusing us of cooking you and eating you.”

Maderun laughed bitterly. “So I would think, were I on the other side of the river.”

He gave her a sharp glance, and then sighed. “You are wasted on laying stones,” the Marshal said. “In the Mark, a woman as witty and beautiful as you could be queen.”

“I have no desire to be queen,” Maderun said, picking at her porridge. 

“But to be a common laborer?”

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Perhaps life has something else planned for me. Until then, I am content.”

“Hmm.” The Marshal watched her eat for a moment, and then strode over to pick up the leather satchel wherein she had placed the neatly folded dress, slippers, looking-glass and comb. He held it, as if hesitating, and then brandished it at her.

“Take this,” he said.

Maderun glanced up. “No.”

His brows creased. “Yes, I wish you would.”

“I have no need for treasures in Dunland,” she said, putting down her spoon. “What would my people think of me? I can answer that for you—they would think me a whore, bought with riches to be used by Strawheads.”

The Marshal blinked at her, taken aback by her plain speaking. “Very well,” he said. “Then—take just the comb, at least. You have such lovely hair.”

“No, I would rather not,” Maderun snapped. “You are determined to make me a whore.”

“Fine,” he forced through a clenched jaw. “Come out then, when you have decided you are ready.”

But his retreating back diminished her appetite, and after a few minutes struggling with her pride, Maderun set her uneaten breakfast on the ground and prepared herself to leave the camp.

The Marshal was standing outside the tent, arms folded across his chest and facing determinedly away from her. She touched his sleeve gently, and he glanced darkly down at her.

“I apologize for offending,” she said in a soft voice. “I only meant that—well, you giving me gifts is not dissimilar to how a mistress is treated, and, well . . . I would rather be cast off than a mistress. Memories are enough.”

His frown was set, but he nodded. “Let us not part in anger,” he said, and then sighed. “Let us go, then.”

They were joined on their trek by Erkenbrand, who fell in behind them and looking stern as ever. Several soldiers were standing in the mud on the western bank of the river, and Maderun gazed out across, where she could see the Dunlending soldiers doing the same. Sudden annoyance coursed through her—not just as the Strawheads, but at her people as well. What purpose did all of this hate and bitterness serve, anyway? Who was benefitting from it?

No one she knew.

“Farewell.” The Marshal whispered in her ear, low enough that she would be the only one to hear it. Shivers crept up her skin at his warm breath, and she took a deep, trembling breath to suppress her emotion. Without looking back, she stepped into the ankle-deep water of the Fords, and walked eastward.


End file.
